


Dreams We Cannot Keep

by Chrysantza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Occult, Romance, Sandor/Sansa Unconsummated Tragic Love, Stark Women Being Awesome, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysantza/pseuds/Chrysantza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Robb keeps Theon close and Theon becomes his loyal good-brother. Catelyn gets her daughters back, but can only keep one with her. Sansa returns to her family resolved to make her new husband love her, despite the fact that she loves another. Jon fights with the most reknowned mercenary army in the world. And, of course, here there be dragons, and winter is not far behind.</p><p>Title taken from “Paint the Sky with Stars” by Enya. </p><p>Tags, pairings, and warnings will be added and/or updated as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely all credit goes to George R.R. Martin. I but play in his sandbox. This work derives from both book and TV canon, but mainly from the book. Though wildly, wildly AU (as in so AU it isn’t even funny), I should probably warn for spoilers through just about everything that has been published. The ages of the Stark and Baratheon siblings as well as Dany correspond to the TV show, not the book (see the Wiki of Ice and Fire for ages; generally they are aged up from two to three years). 
> 
> Divergences galore: Robb listens to his mother and keeps Theon close, sending an envoy to the Iron Islands instead. Sansa escapes King's Landing shortly before Blackwater, and Arya escapes Harrenhal. Of course, Winterfell is intact. Jon goes to the Golden Company in Essos instead of the Wall.
> 
> Unbeta'd, unbent, unbroken, so reviews and feedback are welcome.
> 
> This work will contain dialog from the book and TV show.
> 
> Thank you to Caroh99 for feedback and encouragement!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn mourns her broken family, and Tytos Blackwood makes Balon Greyjoy an offer he can't refuse (though he badly wants to!)

Prologue

Catelyn

Catelyn stepped through the cobblestone path through the gardens to the sandstone sept, holding her black lambswool skirts in her hand to keep them out of the damp. It was autumn, and drizzly, but Minisa Tully’s garden still bloomed pink, purple and white with asters and autumn crocuses. _How Sansa would love them,_ Catelyn thought. Her heart twisted. Her sons, at least, were alive, Bran and Rickon at Winterfell and Robb here at Riverrun; but Sansa and Arya were hostages of the Lannisters and Catelyn could only hope and pray that they were well-treated. _Gods, please bring my daughters back to me._

She felt a soft hand on her arm. “My lady, I can only imagine the pain that must be in a mother’s heart – but the Mother Above understands. Let us go in and say our prayers before we get soaked.”

Catelyn wondered what Septa Juliane thought of the torrential autumn rains that soaked the Riverlands, if this drizzle was a “soaking.” The septa had swathed herself in a hooded cloak of tightly woven, water-repellent wool over her white robes and headdress, while Catelyn herself walked bareheaded, her still-vivid auburn hair flowing to below her waist. On impulse, she stopped to pluck two of the autumn asters – a blue one for Sansa and a white one for Arya.

The small sept was bathed in rainbow light from the crystal on the high altar. Pools of wax clotted the niches below the painted figures of the Seven. With the war, the small and the great alike had more reason to pray than ever, and candle flames danced before the Mother, the Maiden and the Warrior.

All septs kept candles near the High Altar for those who wished to make offerings to the gods. Wealthy septs such as Riverrun’s had wax candles, white and scented; poor ones made do with plain tallow. 

Septa Juliane, entering behind Catelyn, took a candle and went to where the Maiden with her golden hair and white dress smiled down upon her worshippers. Catelyn sighed. She had prayed every day to the Mother and the Maiden to watch over her girls. Perhaps it was time for new prayers.

Catelyn lit three candles. The first was to the Smith, who repaired broken things. She asked the Smith to repair her broken family and make it whole again. The next candle was for the Crone, that She might raise Her lamp and light the way home for Sansa and Arya. Then, finally, the Stranger. Very few people ever lit candles at the altar of the Stranger. But Catelyn felt that it was her duty to give every one of the Seven a prayer. _I was born dutiful, she thought. I’ve done my duty to my family, my husband, my son, and, yes, the Seven, too. ___

She unfolded herself from before the altar. Getting up from her knees didn’t come as easily as it had before. When had the stiffness crept up on her? She was only six-and-thirty – that was not old; she was still young enough to have borne more children if Ned had lived. Both she and Ned had always hoped that there would be another son or daughter after Rickon. But, fertile or not, Catelyn was old enough to be a grandmother, and might be one soon. Robb had promised to marry a Frey girl, and Sansa too was to be married once she was rescued. Arya was betrothed to one of the Frey boys, but Catelyn was hoping that this betrothal could be broken before Arya was old enough to wed. Arya was still not quite thirteen, almost certainly not yet flowered.

Leaving Septa Juliane to her prayers, Catelyn left the sept and on a sudden impulse went to the godswood. She had never followed or even really understood the Old Gods that Ned had loved so well, and the Riverrun godswood was intended for a pleasure garden and not a place of worship. But her girls were Starks of Winterfell, and the Old Gods looked after them. Catelyn put the crumpled and wilted asters she had picked from the garden beneath a redwood and prayed to whoever, or whatever, whispered through the branches, to bring her daughters safely home to her.

A large drop of water falling on her head startled Catelyn, and she knew she had to go back inside – it was getting on for late afternoon, it was damp and chilly, and she was bareheaded and uncloaked. She went inside and up to her chamber, which was warm from the fire in the hearth. Sinking into a chair, she sent a maidservant for a cup of hot spiced wine. Soon the room was filled with the fragrance of spices mingling with the smell of steaming wool and rosewater from Catelyn’s dress.

There was a knock on the door. “Cat?”

“Come in!” Uncle Brynden Blackfish was one of the few people Catelyn wanted to face right now. Soon it would be suppertime, and a hall full of men, and shouting, and talk of war, and Theon smirking at her when Robb wasn’t looking. 

Uncle Brynden seated himself in the chair across from Catelyn’s by the fire and said, “I’m glad Robb took your advice, child, and sent Tytos Blackwood to treat with Balon Greyjoy.”

Catelyn gave a wan smile. “I don’t trust Theon.” _And especially with my daughter. _“And he’s of more value of a hostage than an envoy. And do you realize that when you praised my sage counsel you still called me ‘child’?” Catelyn’s smile was wider now; her uncle had said the first thing that amused her all day.__

“Tytos Blackwood is sharp, and he brings an offer that would tempt even a crazy fool like Balon Greyjoy. Robb offers Balon a crown, his sister for a good-daughter, and all the Lannister loot they can raid, in exchange for the Iron Islands alliance. And,” he continued, “the ‘child’ just slips out sometimes. The privilege of age.” Brynden winked and took another swallow of his wine.

“At least Theon’s no Joffrey Baratheon.” Catelyn, solemn again, swirled the dregs of the wine in her cup. “Although he’s not the husband Ned or I ever envisioned for Sansa…”

There was another knock on the door. “My lady?” Catelyn heard Septa Juliane’s soft, sweet voice.

Catelyn got up and went to the door, resolving to find some way to send Septa Juliane on her way somehow. She liked the woman and normally enjoyed her company, but now was not the time. There were so few opportunities these days to sit and chat with her beloved uncle with no-one else around. Brynden Tully was one of Robb’s most trusted and capable commanders along with the Greatjon and Roose Bolton. Catelyn herself had her hands full with managing Riverrun, trying to help manage Winterfell at a distance, and advise Robb. 

“Yes?” Catelyn opened the door partway.

Juliane curtseyed. “My lady, I am so sorry to interrupt, but I just want to get my sewing basket. I left it here.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Come on in.” Juliane smiled her sweet, bland smile that seemed carved into her face – Catelyn sometimes wondered if she was born with it – swept in, found her basket, curtseyed again to Catelyn and Brynden, and retreated silently on slippered feet. 

Returning to her chair, Catelyn sighed, “I just want my daughters to be happy. For a woman, everything depends upon the man who is chosen for her. I was lucky. I had a good man who was easy to love. Lysa didn’t.”

“Jon Arryn was a good man, but he was old enough to be Lysa’s grandfather, and what young woman wants to be married off to an old man? And Lysa is not you, child. You are easy to love, and Lysa is not. From what you tell me of Sansa, she is very much your daughter. Theon is young and good-looking, he and Sansa have grown up together, and he loves her.”

“He – what?” said Catelyn, startled.

“He told me that he had always dreamed of being able to marry Sansa, and when Robb had announced their betrothal, it was a dream come true for him. As much for the fact that she’s a Stark as for her beauty, I will wager,” said Brynden. “No matter, the lad will treat Sansa well for Robb’s sake as much as her own, I’m sure.”

“I had no idea,” Catelyn said, “and I am very sure that Ned didn’t. And even if he did, Ned would have said ‘no.’ If Theon loves Sansa like he says, I hope he can treat her well and be a good and faithful husband to her.” Catelyn emphasized the word, “faithful.” _Ned loved me well, yet still he brought a bastard home and insisted on raising him with our own trueborn children. Theon’s quite like to have left more than one baseborn babe in his wake already. Will he prove another Robert Baratheon? ___

“Sansa is your daughter, Cat. I only met her once, many years ago, but I always thought she was very like you. And if she’s still her mother’s daughter, she will build a happy marriage. All women can’t have Ned Stark for a husband. Stop fretting over something that hasn’t even happened yet, Cat, first we must get your daughters back. Then we worry about Theon being a good husband to Sansa.”

“If only Robb would consent to trading Jaime Lannister for Sansa and Arya,” Catelyn sighed.

“I would have it too, child,” Brynden replied. “The girls are family, and I want them safe in Riverrun too. But so many of his bannermen feel differently…”

“Especially Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton, and Jonos Bracken,” said Catelyn. “Maege Mormont understands how I feel, because she has daughters whom she loves, but Jonos Bracken can’t even remember all his daughter’s names, I’m sure. And Walder Frey’s another. ‘Heh. You can always make more daughters,’ he’d say.” Catelyn shuddered.

“Robb and the Lannister Imp are negotiating sending Tion Frey and Willem Lannister in exchange for the girls,” Brynden reassured her. “Even if that doesn’t work, there will be other Lannister hostages, and if Robb can invade the Westerlands, Lannister gold as well. We’ll get those girls back.”

Catelyn smiled and wiped her eyes. Her uncle always had good advice and knew what to say to make her feel better. All things considered, Theon Greyjoy might not be too bad – he wasn’t Joffrey Baratheon, nor Walder Frey. And somehow her daughters would be returned to her and her broken family made almost whole again. _Almost._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Tytos Blackwood

The Ironborn longship was waiting for Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree, at Seagard. Beneath the Greyjoy kraken flew a standard of a drowned man, with pink flesh and streaming blond hair, fish nibbling at his stomach and chest. House Sunderly, Tytos recalled. Balon Greyjoy’s mother had been a Sunderly. Tytos had spent the last few days at Seagard brushing up on his Iron Islands heraldry and talking with King Robb, Catelyn Tully, Jason Mallister and the Blackfish. Jason Mallister had, in fact, been the King’s first pick for his envoy, but Lord Jason himself had declined.

“Your Grace, I am honored that you want me to treat with Greyjoy, but I am the one who killed his eldest son beneath the walls of Seagard, and I am sure to be about as welcome as greyscale at Pyke. Send Lord Tytos. No bad blood there.”

So Tytos Blackwood found himself aboard an Ironborn longship, sipping from a bottle of a syrupy ginger-smelling concoction that Seagard’s maester had sworn to him would prevent seasickness – it did, somewhat – with an offer from Robb, King in the North, to Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, in hand. An alliance with the North, a splendid marriage for Balon’s son and heir – much better than any Greyjoy could have expected under other circumstances – all in exchange for sacking Lannisport and sailing away with as much loot as they could carry. _These islands are poor, and Greyjoy has but the one son and a maiden daughter. He’d do well to accept Robb’s offer of an alliance and his sister. With his heir married to Princess Sansa, and his ships full of Westerlands plunder, he can spend the rest of his life sitting pretty on his little island, knee-deep in gold and grandchildren. Not a bad way to spend one’s old age._

And I want this alliance to work as much as the Young Wolf does, for my own reasons, Tytos mused. _Thank you, Lannisters, for your bountiful gift of a desert in place of mine own lush estates. Some of Tywin Lannister’s golden shit is the only fertilizer I want._

The captain of the longship mostly ignored Tytos, and the crew were brusque and unfriendly, commenting disparagingly on “Greenlanders.” They laughed at his fine clothing and, to his dismay, his raven-feather cloak, wondering if he had “paid the iron price” for it. Tytos held his tongue. He knew what “the iron price” meant – he was not such a fool as to go on a diplomatic mission completely uninformed as to the customs of the land he was visiting – but he didn’t want to waste his energy picking fights with crewmen; he wanted to save both energy and patience for treating with Lord Balon, and from everything he had heard about the old kraken, he’d need plenty of both. So Lord Tytos spent most of his time belowdecks, where the howling wind and drenching rain did not penetrate – much – and he was mostly left alone. Tytos thanked the gods he was not born an Iron Islander, for he could not imagine being stuck on one of these miserable floating prisons for months or years on end. The Old Gods, like the trees whose whispering leaves were their voices, were firmly rooted in the earth.

After a dismal few days, which seemed like an eternity to Tytos, he saw Pyke looming through the driving rain. What he saw in the fading afternoon light as the longship pulled up along the cliffs was not a cheering sight. The seat of the Greyjoys consisted of seven dreary towers, which appeared to be part of the surf-battered, lichen-covered cliffs themselves. Each tower stood on its own rocky island. They were linked one to another by bridges and walkways. Tytos wondered if he was going to have to cross one of the flimsy rope bridges that swayed and shuddered in the wind.

The Sunderly longship pulled into a gap between the gatehouse and the largest of the stone towers. If Balon Greyjoy had not condescended to send a longship, Tytos would have had to find a merchant ship to take him to Lordsport, the only safe anchorage for ordinary ships, on the other side of the island.

“Here we are, the Great Keep, that’s where you’ll sleep tonight,” said the captain. “Here, you,” he snapped his fingers at a crewman, “show Lord, ah, Blacktree…”

“That’s Blackwood,” Tytos corrected him.

“Blackwood, then, to the keep. Then get your arse back here on board.”

Another man grabbed Tytos’ trunk and they were off down the gangplank and up winding stone steps to the Great Keep. Tytos had to watch his feet carefully; he found himself slipping more than once on the algae that coated the worn stone.

An old woman, with stringy gray hair in a messy braid down her back and wearing a shapeless brown wool dress, greeted them. “M’lord, I’m Helya, Lord Greyjoy’s steward. I’ll show you to your chambers.” 

“Helya. I am Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, the King in the North’s envoy to Balon Greyjoy.” He wondered at a peasant woman serving as household steward. Everywhere else in Westeros that he knew about, high lords’ stewards were younger sons of landed knights or petty lordlings, or at least well born enough to bear a surname and coat of arms. And noble girls were trained in household management, for when they married. Some, like the latest Lady Frey, left their stewards entirely in charge, but most were more like Catelyn Stark or Layla Mallister or Tytos’ own late lady wife, and worked closely with their stewards. Many widowers had a grown daughter or widowed sister or impoverished aunt or cousin live with them and help run their household. Lord Balon supposedly had a wife. Tytos wondered where she was, or if she was a poor manager. And why did a great lord leave a peasant woman to run his castle? But he was a guest, and guests were polite to stewards, unless they never wanted to be invited back. To be rude to servants was a mark of ill-breeding.

They climbed up another flight of stone stairs to a small and gloomy chamber. “Here you are, m’lord. You!” Helya pointed at the man with Tytos’ trunk, “put that down here, “and you!” she grabbed a serving woman seemingly from thin air, “supper for m’lord.”

“And water so I can wash, please,” Tytos requested.

Helya lit a candle. The room was still cheerless, but at least now Tytos could see to walk. The crewman dumped Tytos’ trunk unceremoniously in one corner, where it banged open, strewing clothing over what looked to be a very dusty Myrish carpet. Before Tytos could grab the man’s arm, the trunk-dumper left the room, took the stairs two at a time and was gone.

“When the girl comes back, please have her pick up my clothes off the floor, fold them and put them away,” Tytos said to Helya. “Where is the lady of the castle? I would speak to her.”

“Gone to her brother’s, and not coming back,” snapped the steward.

_That explains a lot. Well, Catelyn Stark’s daughter ought to be able to set things to rights, if she’s at all like her mother. ___

Helya soon left, and two serving women came in, one with a tray of food and another with a basin of water and a sliver of soap. They set both down on the table and the water-bearer left with a bang of the door. The woman who had served Tytos’ food wiped her nose on her sleeve and turned to fold his clothes. Tytos prodded his stew with his spoon. The meal was meager fare for a high lord’s castle – unseasoned goat stew, black bread, and warm beer, more like what Tytos would expect to eat in camp rather than as a lord’s guest. He looked around the room. The single candle illuminated a worn and dusty Myrish carpet and moth-eaten, decrepit Lyseni tapestries; one depicted the Doom of Valyria, and another was garishly rendered with a leering black-haired pirate with a red-haired woman slung over his shoulder. Tytos were sure these had once been costly, if tawdry – although the Ironborn must have paid what they called the “iron price” and stolen them – and could have been passed down for generations had they been properly cared for. Raventree Hall had tapestries that were hundreds of years old, and still beautiful and in good repair, gracing its walls. The room exuded an aura of neglect; it was as if no children had played or squires practiced at arms or women danced or sewed here in many years.

The next morning, Tytos breakfasted on soft-boiled eggs – thankfully fresh – and more black bread, and donned a dark red velvet doublet, black breeches and black boots. Slinging his raven-feather cloak over his shoulders, he picked up the leather pouch containing the document from King Robb to Lord Balon Greyjoy, and followed the manservant who was to show him the way to Lord Balon’s solar in the Sea Tower.

Tytos listened to the hypnotic sound of the ocean waves breaking against the covered bridges. It was soothing, in a way. The swaying rope bridge, on the other hand…they were like trying to keep one’s balance on a giant writhing snake poised high above the crashing waves. Tytos held his head high as he strode across the bridge. _Let them laugh at Greenlanders. It was us who conquered them, not the other way around. I have commanded battles. I am made of sterner stuff than these chest-beating, tough-talking ironborn. _He was still glad when his feet touched solid ground again.__

Here was the Sea Tower, where the Lord of Pyke and his family lived. Tytos climbed up another flight of damp stone steps to a door made of old wood, rotted in some places and moldy in others, bound by rusted iron. His escort knocked on the door and then left. The hinge creaked as the door opened wide enough to show the face of a guard. “M’lord Blackwood?”

“Yes. I’m the envoy sent by the King in the North to Lord Greyjoy.”

“Come in then,” said the guard and opened the door. The lord’s solar was dank and drafty, and almost as ill-kept as Tytos’ room was – the kraken-patterned hangings on the walls showed rot and mold, and nothing in the room looked very clean, not least its lordly occupant.

Balon Greyjoy, who once called himself King of the Islands, was a small gaunt man with a hard bony face, thin lips, and flat black eyes like pieces of jet. Tangled gray hair hung down past the small of his back. He was garbed in a long robe of dirty sealskin and worn leather boots. Theon had said that his father had told him, long ago when he was sent to Winterfell as a hostage, that the Iron Islands bred hard men for a hard life. Balon’s years of hard living showed on him so that he looked almost as old as Hoster Tully, although he couldn’t have been more than Tytos’ or Jason Mallister’s age. 

“So. You’re here from Robb the Boy.”

“My lord.” Tytos bowed. He was determined not to meet rudeness with rudeness; being the father of seven children and fostering numerous pages and squires had taught him patience and to hold his temper. But Balon Greyjoy promised to be more exasperating than the mouthiest spoiled lordling Tytos had ever met. “I am the King in the North’s envoy. Here is the letter he sent.” Tytos handed it over to him.

“Here. You might as well sit,” Greyjoy growled as he broke open the direwolf seal on the letter and began reading. “The boy king writes to me as a brother king, asking me to join with him against the Lannisters…”

Tytos remembered how Catelyn Stark, Jason Mallister and the Greatjon Umber had wrangled with King Robb for hours writing that letter. At first, the Young Wolf wanted to offer the old kraken a crown in exchange for his allegiance. Catelyn Stark had been aghast. _“Balon Greyjoy is a proud and stubborn old man, Catelyn had said. “He would never do the bidding of a boy young enough to be his son. Treat him as if he were a king already. Show respect for age and experience even if you don’t really mean it.” The Greatjon had finally settled things by saying “Unless you plan to send Grey Wind to bite off a few of Greyjoy’s tentacles, you better not forget that you are a lad of eighteen and he was proud and stupid enough to think the Old Way can be revived.”_ Wanting to put the discussion back on a footing more respectful to King Robb, Tytos said, “King Robb, the Young Wolf, is a warrior of reknown. The man you call ‘the boy’ captured none other than Jaime Lannister at the Battle of the Whispering Wood. Where your own son acquitted himself most bravely.”

Greyjoy shot Tytos a baleful glare. “So…my son…has he been turned into a soft Greenlander?”

“Your son is a brave warrior, your, er, Your Grace.” _Not entirely a lie._ “He is respected by all.” _Somewhat of a lie._ “As for being a soft Greenlander, I’m a very poor judge of that. But speaking of the Young Wolf and your son – Robb Stark has your son. Your only son – as his hostage. You’d do best to consider that very carefully. If you take up arms against King Robb, he could send you your son’s head. And then your family line will die out.”

“I have a daughter. A brave and beautiful daughter who is fit to sit the Seastone Chair after me.”

“I have a daughter I cherish, so I know the love a father can bear his daughter. But your much-loved daughter is still a maid of three-and-twenty, unmarried, with no children. When are you planning to arrange a marriage for her? And your brothers – they have never had children, and at their ages, are like to die childless. Princess Sansa is young and beautiful, very like her mother, who has raised five healthy children. The Princess will give you grandchildren, heirs to sit your Seastone Chair after you and continue the Greyjoy dynasty. The Starks and Tullys have been Great Houses since the Age of Heroes. Robb Stark could not offer you a fairer or more noble maid for your son.”

Greyjoy looked sour. “So King Robb wants me to beard the old lion in his den? Casterly Rock? Tywin Lannister is too clever. No-one has ever been able to take Casterly Rock. The North, on the other hand…”

“…is still very well defended by at least five thousand men, not counting the mountain clans,” Tytos replied. “King Robb is not the fool you might think he is; he wouldn’t leave just old men and young boys behind to defend what is his home. You are about as likely to take Winterfell as you are Casterly Rock, and the Northern lords love the Starks in a way the southron lords do not love their Lannisters.” Tytos pressed on. “The wealth of the North lies in timber, in furs, in wool, in ivory. The wealth of the Westerlands lies in gold and gems. Which sounds better to you? Chasing sable through the Wolfswood, skinning them and hauling the furs all the way back to Sea Dragon Point? Or sailing into Lannisport, burning the Lannister fleet, packing your ships with all the gold and gems and silks you can carry, maybe seizing Fair Isle and a goldmine or two, and then sailing back to Pyke, where the lions can do nothing but stand on Casterly Rock and roar? King Robb is not asking you to take Casterly Rock – he’s not a fool. He wants you as an ally to pull the lions every which way until they are declawed.”

“Hm.” Greyjoy frowned down at the letter. “Gold and gems…”

“Isn’t that your Old Way that you want to revive?” Tytos asked. “Well there you are, Robb Stark wants to help you revive it!” He had no idea what Robb would say if he heard him saying that, and he had a very good idea of what Catelyn would say, and it would not be courteous or ladylike. But Tytos was a man with a mission.

“Ssst.” Balon gritted his teeth. He shot Tytos a look of pure loathing, then grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled. “I’m telling your Young Wolf Pup that he can have my Iron Fleet and my allegiance once my son and Princess Wolf are wedded and bedded. Then I’ll be happy to pull the lion’s tail. And until Theon and Wolf Girl are wedded and bedded, I take no sides and keep my ships docked. Here, if you don’t believe me, you can look at it.” Greyjoy shoved the paper under Tytos’ nose. It confirmed exactly what Greyjoy said. Greyjoy sealed the paper in black sealing wax stamped with a kraken and gave it to Tytos. Then he said:

“Get out! I want you out of my castle and to Lordsport by tonight.”

“It will make me a happy man to comply with Your Grace’s wish,” said Tytos. As he left the room, he wondered what kind of homecoming Theon was going to have. The boy had left his homeland at ten – seemingly taking all the smiles at Pyke with him – and had only the most misty, idealized child’s recollections of what life was like among the Ironborn. If only he knew the reality, Theon would shit his silken smallclothes. A soft Greenlander indeed. His father was bound to be equally disappointed with his son. Tytos was not confident that the Princess Sansa could be winkled out of King’s Landing anytime soon, but at least Greyjoy had promised to take no sides until then. Greyjoy might well have used the excuse of the wedding and bedding knowing that the Lannisters wanted to keep a tight hold on Sansa Stark and were not about to let her go for anyone less than the Kingslayer, if even him. Greyjoy might well be able to sit out most of the war. At least his mission was not a complete failure. The Iron Islands were not a threat. King Robb had one less headache. Tytos hoped that both the princesses, Sansa and Arya, could be ransomed and returned, not just for the sake of alliances, but for their mother. Tytos couldn’t bear to think of his own little Bethany far away, isolated among enemies, lost to her family. Tytos resolved that when he returned to Riverrun, he’d say a prayer in the godswood for the health and safety of Sansa and Arya.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves King's Landing - with some help from a non-gallant non-ser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a seat-of-the-pants writer. That is, I have a general idea of where this is going, but I tend to improvise as I go along. As I was crafting the first part of my story, I realized: That the timelines were giving me a giant headache (so I'm really doing my best here); that I had written myself into a plot hole; but upon re-read, that I could correct this by having Sansa leave earlier - in Sansa 4 of ACOK to be precise.
> 
> And thanks to some re-analysis on the w.org Sansa threads, I realized that if Sandor had come to her with a credible escape plan right before Blackwater (Sansa 4 of ACOK) - when Sansa noticed that she was being left unguarded and that everyone was preoccupied with the impending war - that they could have left quite easily. Sansa told Ser Dontos that she wanted to leave, and was quite hacked at him for his "be patient" line. And since we've had a lot of BBW escape fics already, I thought I'd try something new. So enjoy!

_**Sansa** _

 

“You have flowered, little dove. Your mother told you what this means, didn't she?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa replied. “Once a maid flowers, she can be wedded and bedded.”

 

“And now you have a new weapon you can use, right between your legs. A woman’s most powerful weapon – her only one, really.” Cersei smiled and patted Sansa on the cheek in farewell.

 

 _And now_ , Sansa realized, _Joffrey would carry out his threats_. _She would be bedded, if not wedded_. Joffrey had bragged about how he would have her as his mistress, if not his wife, once she was old enough – after all, didn’t King Aegon have countless mistresses and bastards, too? Joffrey would bed her, and she’d bear his bastard children, and then what? Sansa didn’t know what had become of Aegon the Unworthy’s mistresses, and she didn’t know what would become of her when Joffrey tired of her, but at best, she thought, she’d be soiled and disgraced when the time came for her to be exchanged for the Kingslayer and her brother would find her some second son of some minor lord to marry. At worst, her family might decide that once soiled, they wouldn't want her back at all, and it would be the Silent Sisters or the black cells or the block for her.

 

Her family... Every day she remained at the Red Keep, Sansa’s hopes of being rescued or ransomed were fading. Her brother had won another battle in the Westerlands – this one at Ashemark – earning Sansa another beating at the hands of the Kingsguard on Joffrey’s orders. But no-one from her family was riding to her rescue, her direwolf was dead, and Old Gods and new alike were blind and deaf to her plight. And the North did not remember Sansa Stark. _The letters the Queen made me write, she thought. They probably think I meant every word I said. They must think I’m a turncloak. And Joffrey would have me be a soiled turncloak as well._

 

Sighing, Sansa stood up and went to her jewelry cask. She opened it and absent-mindedly ran her fingers through the gems. _I could sell these and get passage on a ship and go to Braavos. Jon is in the Golden Company, which is…somewhere in Essos_. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was Lys or Myr. News outside of the major trade hubs traveled slowly and if there was talk of the Golden Company being in Myr today, she could sail and find the news was six turnings of the moon old and they were now in Lys. A company of mercenary soldiers was no place for a lady, anyway.

 

The only hope she had so far was Ser Dontos, but all he could do was tell her to be patient, her time would come. Sansa twisted a rope of moonstones between her fingers. Surely the Florian in the songs wasn’t as hapless as her Florian! As she had pointed out to him when they had last met in the godswood, he had done nothing to help her – for all his promises, Sansa was still here in the Red Keep under the paws of the Lannisters.

 

As far as Sansa was concerned, her time _had_ come. Everyone was preoccupied with the coming battle with Stannis. She no longer had a member of the Kingsguard shadowing her every step; even Sansa’s serving maids were too worried about what was to become of them if Stannis won to make regular reports to Cersei. The gates were guarded, Sansa knew, but the guards would be more concerned with who was coming in than who was leaving. Thousands of Stannis’ men waited across the river in their silken tents, banners snapping a challenge in the wind.

 

 _I could just throw on a cloak and walk out one of the gates and no-one would miss me – they couldn’t spare the men to go after me, not now with Stannis waiting to attack_ , Sansa thought. _Last night the very drawbridge was unguarded._ But she wasn’t her sister, Arya Underfoot who could disappear unrecognized and fend for herself. Sansa was a fine lady, who could sew and sing and dance but who was utterly helpless without a strong man to defend her.

 

Sansa stood up and closed her jewel casket. Her Florian was turning out to be a fool in deed, and Sansa was sick of being patient and waiting for her time to come. There was another – he was no true knight, nor even a good man, as he had reminded her himself – but he had saved her life during the riots the day Princess Myrcella had sailed for Dorne, when Sansa was sure she’d be raped and torn limb from limb. And when Joffrey had ordered her stripped naked and beaten before the whole court after the news of the battle of Oxcross, it was this man who had thrown Sansa his white cloak to cover herself with. Just last night Sansa had taxed him with his cruelty and godlessness and he had snapped at her to stop her peeping and go back to her cage, but, growl though he might, he had helped her. Dontos had none of his resolve. Sansa would take her chances. The worst Sandor Clegane could do would not compare to the worst Joffrey could do – Sansa was sure that Clegane would have the mercy to kill her quickly, at least.

 

So she set off to the godswood, thinking that he would be sure to run into her at some point as he seemed to have an uncanny way of doing just that – as if he was watching over her for his own reasons. And he did not disappoint.

 

“Where do you think you are going, little bird?” A heavy hand spun her around. Once again Sansa forced herself to look straight into Sandor Clegane’s eyes. She did it once and she could do it again. And if her plan worked, she would be doing it for some considerable time to come. All depended on her courage.

 

So she set off to the godswood, thinking that he would be sure to run into her at some point as he seemed to have an uncanny way of doing just that – as if he was watching over her for his own reasons. And he did not disappoint.

 

“Where do you think you are going, little bird?” A heavy hand spun her around. Once again Sansa forced herself to look straight into Sandor Clegane’s eyes. She did it once and she could do it again. And if her plan worked, she would be doing it for some considerable time to come. All depended on her courage.

 

“To the godswood, to pray.” She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the cramps that ripped through her belly.

 

Sandor snorted. “Praying for Joffrey to come home covered in glory? You don’t think I’m stupid, do you?”

 

Sansa drew a deep breath. “No. I do not. As a matter of fact” – she looked hard at him – “it’s rather refreshing that I’m left alone to commune with my gods in peace, and that His Grace’s guard tends to him and to the Queen, as it should be.” They continued in silence for a heartbeat, and Sansa continued, “Most everyone is so busy preparing for the war. I hardly see His Grace, or his lady mother. There is no-one for me to talk to and nothing for me to do but pray to the gods every day.”

 

Sandor grabbed Sansa’s arm and dragged her into a quiet corner. He put his mouth close to her ear and rasped so low she could just hear: “Moonrise. Godswood. Dress warm.” Aloud, he said, “Seven hells, stupid girl, enough with the infernal chirping! Go to your fucking godswood and hop from branch to branch and peep at the gods like a good little bird, for all the good that will do the King! I’ll tell him you prayed for him like a proper little betrothed if you want!” and left.

 

Sansa smiled as she walked to the godswood. Perhaps the gods were listening after all.

~~~~~~~

 

That evening, Sansa put on a dark green wool dress and her most sturdy leather shoes, and braided her hair in a long braid that hung down her back. Making sure her maid – Cersei’s latest spy – was nowhere to be seen, she quickly found the pillowcase containing clean rags, an extra shift, and a few changes of smallclothes and stockings, from where she had stashed it. She threw open her jewel cask and emptied her jewelry into the pillowcase, rolled it shut and stuffed it down the front of her dress. Then she put on a moss-green woolen cape to match her dress, drew the hood up over her face, and went to the godswood, her heart pounding. This would be her journey home – or her journey to the Stranger.

 

Sandor Clegane was waiting for her beneath the great oak tree that was the godswood’s heart tree. “Come along,” he said softly. “You want to pray at the Great Sept, like the good pious little bird you are, and I am accompanying you.”

 

Sansa nodded and they set off in silence. It was amazing how unguarded the streets were – most of the guards were at the gates making sure no-one got in, and little attention was being paid to the King’s betrothed and his sworn shield and what they were doing walking through King’s Landing at night; and that instead of climbing Visenya’s Hill to the Great Sept of Baelor they were setting off down a side street. There a boy stood holding the bridle of a great black horse Sansa remembered from the day of the riots – the blasphemously named Stranger. Sansa fully expected Sandor to pay the boy a coin but instead her new protector pulled a dagger and calmly stabbed the boy in the heart and threw his body aside before mounting the horse and pulling a stunned Sansa up before him.

 

“He would just have gone running to Cersei for a reward. People are starving, remember?  I want to take you home without the lions too hot on our heels. They're busy preparing for war, but they're not entirely stupid, and you're not entirely valueless as a hostage. Listen up, bird,” he grabbed her braid so she had to look up at him, “war is costly, and life is the price. Your poor honor-ridden father was one of those who paid the price. I thought you’d fucking learned the lesson by now. You are your father’s daughter!” Sandor growled. “No more time for talking or chirping. Just make like a Silent Sister until we are well out of here.”

 

Sansa was beyond speech by now and only hoped she had made the right decision. She had put her own life in the hands of a killer, but then, what else was there? Joffrey would have had her killed anyway, and her own family seemed disinclined to rescue her. _Into the arms of the Stranger, indeed. Or on the back of the Stranger, whichever._ Sansa huddled into Sandor’s cloak, wide-eyed in the darkness, listening to the clomp of Stranger’s hooves on the cobblestones, feeling Sandor’s chest rise and fall against her back. A pale quarter moon floated in the sky among a spattering of stars.

 

They clattered ignored and unhindered down the streets and to the Gate of the Lions. True to what she had suspected, the gate was closed and guarded but the man at the gate was concerned with who came in, not with who went out, and seemed afraid of Sandor anyway, and so they were waved through with barely a glance. Sansa felt a laugh bubbling through the depths of her terror – of all the ways to leave King’s Landing, by the Gate of Lions!

 

“What’s funny?” Sandor whispered in her ear when the guard was out of earshot.

She told him.

 

“Fuck the lions. Fuck the Lannisters. And if anyone ever tries to hurt you, I’ll kill them. It’s the least I can do for you, little bird. I’m taking you home.” Sandor spurred Stranger and they rode hard up the Gold Road out of King’s Landing.

 

 


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What once was lost, now is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, everyone! Much appreciated! I'm glad you are enjoying my story! Seraph7 and all the other Theon/Sansa shippers out there - do not worry, there is going to be LOTS of lovely Theon/Sansa (Theonsa?) coming up in later chappies. Too bad Theon's stuck at the Crag for now. :) It's all Robb's fault, thinking he had to Storm The Castle and all that.

**Catelyn**

 

It was a typical autumn morning for the Riverlands – chilly and drenched in rain. Septa Juliane had taken her embroidery frame to the warmest corner of the room near the fire; the ring she wore on her right hand, the Seven-Pointed Star wrought in crystal, cast back flashes of firelight as she stitched. Occasionally, she would raise her dark blue eyes from her embroidery to stare at the window, whenever a strong gust of wind sent the rain slamming against the glass.

 

Robb had been wounded storming the Crag in the Westerlands and was there recovering, while Theon Greyjoy, Smalljon Umber and the rest of his men kicked their heels in the romantic ruin of the castle, waiting for their king to recover so they could return to Riverrun flush with victories and plunder; Oxcross, Ashemark and now the Crag had fallen to Stark forces, and so had some of the rich Lannister gold mines. Edmure had been fighting at the Red Fork, charged with defending Riverrun against Tywin Lannister, and would be returning any day; Desmond Grell, the master-at-arms, had been left at Riverrun itself as castellan. Meanwhile Catelyn was stuck at Riverrun with Septa Juliane, her sworn shield Brienne of Tarth, and her father Hoster Tully, the dying Lord of Riverrun. Catelyn kept herself busy managing Riverrun, visiting her dying father, praying for her family, and endlessly reminiscing about her daughters, spinning out her memories of Sansa and Arya as Septa Juliane stitched and Brienne stared into the fire. There were rumors of a battle between Stannis Baratheon and Lannister forces at King’s Landing. Were Sansa and Arya caught in it? Were they even alive?

 

“Sansa would enjoy your company, Septa,” Catelyn said. “Her embroidery is flawless – her old septa trained her so well, and said Sansa’s work was as beautiful as she was.” She swallowed hard to keep her voice from shaking and continued, “After she marries and goes to Pyke, you can go with her to bear her company for a moon’s turn or so. The Iron Islands will be a hard adjustment for her. And Arya – Lady Brienne, I’m sure she’d like you, and you her.” _A mother’s magic_ , Catelyn thought. _Talk as if your daughters are alive and will return to you at any time and they will be._

 

Catelyn listened to the soft swish of Septa Juliane’s little needle through her embroidery, and thought of what she must do to help her daughters become good wives and mothers when they returned. With Sansa, it would be easy; she knew all the graces and accomplishments of a future queen. She would need more practice casting accounts and in the hands-on side of running a household – Catelyn had been running Riverrun with the help of Utherydes Wayn, the steward, since she was a young girl, but Sansa had been brought up to be purely decorative and gracious. Well, if she needed to know how to run a household, her own mother was the ideal woman to teach her. And Arya needed to learn to try to understand something of a woman’s role. Even if she wasn’t to marry for many years, she was still Arya Stark of Winterfell, Princess in the North and the Trident, and she needed to at least comb her hair and wear dresses. Ned had indulged her far too long, seeing so much of his lost sister Lyanna in Arya.

 

_I have the perfect excuse to keep my daughters close at my side when – not if, **when** – they come back to me. A mother’s magic talisman. The maesters may scoff at magic, but I know that Maester Luwin forged a Valyrian steel link in his chain, so he at least believes there is magic alive in the world…why not the magic spell cast by the love in a mother’s heart?_

 

“I’m going to go look in on Lord Tully now,” said Catelyn, standing up and flexing her hands. Fending off Bran's attacker had damaged the tendons in her hands and left them scarred and stiffer than before. She could still sew, but with less dexterity, and needed to take more frequent rests.

 

Catelyn climbed the stairs to Hoster Tully’s chambers. Brienne was tactful enough to realize that Catelyn would want some time alone with her dying father and so stayed behind with the septa. When Septa Juliane had first arrived from the Oldtown motherhouse, Catelyn had braced herself for a strait-laced and utterly conventional Gods-fearing septa expressing her disdain and disapproval of Brienne at every turn; but Septa Juliane treated the hulking woman warrior with unexpected kindness. They had no interests in common and little to talk about, but at least their relationship was amiable. Catelyn was glad she had no squabbles to mediate. That was one reason she had stopped taking ladies-in-waiting into her service by the time Bran was born. Quarreling daughters were bad enough. _If I could hear my daughters bickering again it would be the sweetest music to my ears._

 

“No word?” Maester Vyman hovered by his patient’s side, gently spooning a mixture of water mixed with honey and milk of the poppy into Hoster Tully’s mouth, stroking his throat to encourage him to swallow.

 

Catelyn knew who he meant. “No,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. She, Brynden Blackfish and Maester Vyman had all sent letters of increasing desperation to Lysa in the Eyrie, informing her bluntly that her father was dying and that she was to come at once and bring young Robert Arryn so that Hoster might see his grandson’s face before he died. The Eyrie might as well have been a ghost castle for all the answer the Tullys received.

 

 _“Damn the woman!”_ Brynden burst out in frustration one evening. _“She won’t call her banners for Robb, she won’t even send her love to her own dying father! She has pissed on family, duty and honor! I swear, Cat, someone has taken the real Lysa Tully and left a changeling in her place!”_ The day before Brynden left with Robb for the Westerlands, he and Catelyn discussed whether Lysa was even competent to be Regent of the Vale, given the situation Catelyn found when she had stayed at the Eyrie. Catelyn hated the thought of working against Lysa – her beloved sister, her best friend – and so had pushed it out of her mind as something to wait until Robb came home from his latest campaign.

 

Catelyn smoothed her father’s brow and tucked the covers in around him. The rain had stopped and now the clouds parted to reveal a sunbeam dancing on the river waters, making them sparkle in the autumn morning. Despite herself, Catelyn smiled.

 

Footsteps pounded up the steps to the solar. Hoster Tully stirred and mumbled; Maester Vyman frowned. The door burst open without a knock.

“My lady.” Desmond Grell, the master-at-arms, stood there out of breath and goggle-eyed; Catelyn bit back the reproach she was about to utter when she saw the expression on his face.

 

“What is it? Is Robb” –

 

“No, my lady. You must come at once, you have to see…” Ser Desmond shook his head as if trying to blink water out of his eyes, then took her arm and rushed her down the stairs and out to the courtyard. Catelyn could hear Brienne and, presumably, Septa Juliane, though the latter had a soft catlike step, come running down the stairs after them.

 

They ran down through the keep into the yard, Catelyn wondering what was going on and Ser Desmond insisting that he couldn’t tell her what was going on until she saw for herself; but no-one was dead, injured, or imprisoned, it was like to be a happy surprise, but Lady Catelyn must first see with her own eyes…

 

Then she stopped, stock-still, causing Ser Desmond to stumble and Brienne to run into her back; the three of them almost collapsed into a heap. The person Catelyn had seen – the sight of whom had frozen her in her tracks and set her heart pounding and her legs trembling – picked up her skirts and started toward her. The men-at-arms surrounding her parted as if making way for a queen.

 

Catelyn had left her older daughter a maid of thirteen. Standing before her was a woman grown – a woman fully as tall as Catelyn herself. Her coppery auburn hair hung in a tangled braid that disappeared beneath a wet and filthy woolen cloak. Her eyes were the same lapis blue that Catelyn remembered, but gone was their innocent brightness; now they were sad, haunted, and oh, so knowing.

 

“Sansa…?” _I thought you were a prisoner in King’s Landing_. _Oh, Mother Merciful, let this not be a trick, please don’t tell me I’ve gone mad as Lysa from grieving…_

 

“Mother,” the Sansa-apparition reached out and touched her cheek with a grimy, blistered hand, “yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Then her face crumpled and she threw herself into Catelyn’s arms. “Mother!”

 

Catelyn could only add her sobs to Sansa’s as she held her tight. “Sansa…my dear, precious child…” _The Gods be thanked, the Gods be praised. The Mother took pity on me, the Smith is mending my broken family, the Crone’s lamp lit Sansa’s way home. Or else it was the mother's magic. Either way, no matter. I have my daughter back._

 


End file.
